For whatever reason, my father, who died in 2009, was very close this weekend, from a favorite piece on the radio, to a friend bringing him up in conversation, to the books and films I chose to spend my days with. It was comfortable, familiar and, for lack of a better word, whole.
I have no idea where the dead go--of course, none of us does. But I also have no belief as to where they go--I'm suspending both belief and disbelief until I get there myself. But that doesn't mean I'm not open to suggestion, to hints, and to divine gifts of comfort and presence reminding me that I'm not trapped in this body, in this day.
There is so much we don't know. And it is so often that we forget how sweetly innocent we are in this world.